God Bless the Child
Of fathering, so little can be said
that carries weight in this, or any world:
the firstborn in his caul
of ravensdown,
the second, a capella from the realm
of mole and sphagnum.
Later, they repent and come to heel
so gladly that the whole house swells with pride,
a gown for her,
a morning coat for him,
lambswool and satin, midnight blue
and gold,
an ounce of civet
stitched through every seam.
A Variation on ‘Panis Angelicus’
Panis angelicus
fit panis hominum
Aquinas
Because they’ve had nothing to say
since the quattrocento,
the angels have turned
to card tricks
and sleight of hand,
music, but no alleluias, that gleam in the orchard
paling to reveal
a godless calm.
They like it better now, a simple life
of wind and fire,
footprints in the dew
like hieroglyphs, but nothing to reveal
beyond the quiet of another
morning: first light, birdsong through the trees.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.
